


I'll Sleep Forever Next to You

by AvoidingAverage



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Basically all the Witchers love Jaskier, Eskel Deserves the World, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Humor, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, I know it's weird coming from me, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, No Angst, Overprotective Witchers, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Sweet, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: “Geralt?”  Eskel’s voice distracts him from his spiraling thoughts.  “What’s wrong?  Where’s the lark?”Geralt seizes on his brother in arms, near desperate for someone who might know what to do.  “He’s sick.  He’s, he’s coughing, feverish--”“How long?” The older Witcher looks like he does before battle, steady and fierce.“I, I’m not sure.”  Abruptly, Jaskier’s early night has all manner of new meanings.  Had he been feeling poorly that long?  His brow furrows.  “He sounded like he was having trouble breathing last night.”_____________________________________Or, three Witchers freak out over a bard with a cold.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 732





	I'll Sleep Forever Next to You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at presenting my new friend agnew with a Secret Santa fic. They requested something without lots of angst (a dangerous new world for me) along with idiots in love. I hope you like it!
> 
> Alternate Title: Three Witchers Attempt to Keep Their Twink Alive

Jaskier coughs.

The sound itself isn’t truly something atypical. A human will cough for a variety of reasons, Vesemir has assured Geralt, and is not something that requires healing each time. The Witcher watches Jaskier cough once more before tossing a smile in his direction and continuing to sing as though nothing was wrong.

Beside him, Eskel and Lambert are watching too, drawn by the sudden intensity of Geralt’s focus. “Something amiss, Wolf?” Eskel asks while Lambert’s hand drops to his weapon.

Geralt waits for Jaskier’s voice to rise like the sun towards the next note in the song, his delicate ears waiting for any deviation in the pattern he knows by heart. When there’s no sign of strain, he slowly allows himself to refocus on the game of gwent in front of him. He shrugs and makes his next move.

“It’s nothing.”

******

It’s been years since a human has dared to travel with Witchers. It wasn’t worth the risk or the heartache to follow the path of war and no human was truly ready to waste their years struggling through muck and mud and blood and pain just to lay beside a stinking Witcher.

Except Jaskier.

Jaskier who was the first to swing if another human dared to speak ill of his Witchers. Jaskier who Geralt found practicing stitching on scraps of leather so he could be better about treating his injuries after a bad hunt. The bard was fierce in his loyalty as he was in his love and Geralt had sworn to himself after the catastrophe that was the dragon hunt that he would never betray that love again.

Falling for the bard had occurred somewhere between the moment when he’d realized he was choosing his routes across the Continent based on how many taverns and inns Jaskier could play at and the moment he’d looked across a crackling fire at a sleeping bard and felt himself  _ ache _ .

******

“I think I’ll head up early tonight,” Jaskier says, easy as anything.

The Witchers look up from where they are busy glowering at each other from over the game board. Geralt’s eyebrows climb and furrow. “Are you sure? You’re usually the last of us to want to pass up an eager crowd.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I’ll need all the rest I can get if I’m going to make it up the mountain tomorrow.”

Eskel and Lambert grin at that. The bard had been an easy addition to their tiny family for the past three winters. Even Vesemir had fallen victim to the easy charm, quick wit, and absolutely filthy songs Jaskier collected just to make them laugh against the winter’s chill. Geralt knows for a fact that Jaskier had bought a new cloak and sturdy boots just to ensure he could make it up the steep trail without needing to be carried.

“Do you want me to come up too?” Geralt asks, ignoring the way the other wolves nudge him for the gentleness in his tone.

“It’s fine, darling. I can manage on my own just fine.” The bard grins over at him and closes the distance to place a hot, lingering kiss against his lips. “I’ll keep the bed warm for you.”

Geralt watches Jaskier walk away and reconsiders if he truly needs to win back his favorite dagger from Lambert. He has the rest of the winter…

“Come now, Geralt,” Eskel grins, “Stop mooning for our poor bardling--he could use the rest.”

He shoves the scarred Witcher when he sees the way Eskel waggles his brows at Lambert at the double meaning. “I’ll make you regret that,” he growls.

  
  


It’s several hours later before Geralt heads upstairs to the room they’d rented as a last treat before the hard journey up the path to Kaer Morhen. He can smell the bitter chill that lingers in the air that promises the first of the winter snows soon. Hopefully they’ll be safely within the keep before the storms truly set in. He makes a mental note to be sure that Jaskier is outfitted properly in the morning to avoid the cold.

He’s quiet when he opens the door and sneaks inside, careful not to halt the rasping breaths that signals Jaskier is fast asleep. Geralt toes off his boots and sets his considerably lighter coin purse beside his weapons. His shirt falls in a careless heap beside them though he chooses to keep his pants on to avoid the worst of the cold morning air.

On the bed, Jaskier is curled onto his side in a tight ball. The rhythm of his breathing--familiar after all these years--is stilted in a new way. There’s a rasping edge to it, something that makes him frown with concern. He steps closer, placing a knee onto the mattress so he can listen. 

A lute-calloused hand reaches out and tugs him closer and he follows helplessly, distracting him from his worry. Jaskier’s breath is hot against the bare skin of his chest as the bard maneuvers him to his liking. It stirs something fragile within him when he watches the way Jaskier smiles and presses closer. There’s no sign of the fear Geralt had learned to expect from humans, only an emotion that’s new and terrifying all at once.

The Witcher waits until Jaskier is nestled against his chest before he wraps his arm around the man’s trim waist. Against him, Jaskier is sleepy and warm despite the thin blankets. Geralt risks brushing a kiss across his jaw before letting the weight of the man in his arms and the distant sound of the wind outside lure him into sleep.

******

The next morning whatever pretense that everything was alright disappears with the lingering traces of night.

Geralt wakes to the sound of Jaskier hacking into his fist, shoving himself away in an effort to keep from disturbing the Witcher. Narrow shoulders shake with the effort and the normally tanned skin looks pale in the weak sunlight streaming through the window. Geralt leaps out of the bed and rushes over to pour a cup of water from the pitcher nearby.

It takes several long minutes before the bard can drag in enough air to appreciate the effort and his hand shakes enough that Geralt has to brace him to keep it from spilling. Jaskier winces as he gulps in air.

“What’s happened to you?” Geralt asks, eyes raking over a face gone clammy with sweat.

Jaskier shakes his head, trying for his usual easy smile. “I’m alright, my love. I just had a tickle in my throat.”

The Witcher grunts, unsatisfied. His hand reaches out to brush away a lock of sweat matted hair from his forehead and feels fear growing like ice in his veins. Against his own cool skin, Jaskier feels like he’s burning up. Geralt presses his hand more firmly against Jaskier’s skin, ignoring the way the bard tries to move away.

“You’re burning up!” Geralt accuses, “You have a fever.”

“Geralt, it’s  _ fine-- _ ”

“It’s  _ not _ ,” he snaps back, worry making his tone sharp, “You’ve gotten sick.”

His mind spins, trying to think of how to fix this. Jaskier had to be safe. He had to be.

Abruptly, Geralt gets to his feet and levels a glare at the bard. “Stay here. I’m getting supplies.”

“Geralt--”

He lets the door shut on the man’s protest.

Geralt considers finding a healer, but the town they’re in is tiny enough that he knows it’s a long shot. No self-respecting healer would bother with a group of farmers that can barely manage to keep themselves fed. Even the inn was little more than a few rooms beneath a leaking roof, surviving mainly by the Witchers who passed through this way.

This leaves him with only his own potions and store of supplies to keep Jaskier from deteriorating further. He now carries bandages in his pack, but he knows the potions a Witcher carries would only lead to death. 

“Geralt?” Eskel’s voice distracts him from his spiraling thoughts. “What’s wrong? Where’s the lark?”

Geralt seizes on his brother in arms, near desperate for someone who might know what to do. “He’s sick. He’s, he’s coughing, feverish--”

“How long?” The older Witcher looks like he does before battle, steady and fierce.

“I, I’m not sure.” Abruptly, Jaskier’s early night has all manner of new meanings. Had he been feeling poorly that long? His brow furrows. “He sounded like he was having trouble breathing last night.”

Lambert steps out of the room closest to them. “What the fuck are you two gossiping about?”

“Jaskier is sick,” Eskel snaps and Geralt watches Lambert’s usual facade of disinterest fall.

“What? How could you let him get sick?”

Geralt flushes, furious and guilty all at once. “I didn’t--”

All of them stop at the sound of painful coughing.

“Is there a healer?” Lambert asks, eyes still fixed on the door. His hands clench into fists at his side. 

“Not for miles. It would take us days to find one,” Eskel answers. 

_ Jaskier might not have that long. _

The thought makes Geralt make a low noise of agony. They couldn’t just let him  _ suffer _ . Somehow the rattle in his lungs and the heat beneath his skin seemed worse than any mortal wound in that moment. 

“Was he poisoned?” The youngest Witcher looks desperate for some villain to blame for whatever had befallen Jaskier. Geralt thinks of all the evening he’d caught Jaskier and Lambert bent over countless books, reading the novels they’d picked up throughout the year. He remembers the unfamiliar softness in Lambert’s expression as the bard laughed up at him and touched him without fear. He imagines he can hear the fear that always seemed absent in Jaskier awakening in each of them.

Eskel shakes his head. “No one would dare--not this close to Kaer Morhen. Even if they did we would have smelled it.”

“He’ll need fluids,” Geralt finally manages to conclude in the midst of his whirling thoughts, “Fluids and, and--” A memory snaps into place from a lifetime before, “--soup.”

“I’ll get the soup,” Lambert immediately volunteers. 

Eskel nods. “I’ll get us rooms for another night.”

Geralt stares back at them, overwhelmed by the unwavering support of his odd little family. It makes him feel wrong-footed somehow, too used to the way people always expected something in return for his work. He wonders if this would ever have been possible without the little bard from Posada.

“Thank you,” he murmurs and they nod like they know what he’s really trying to say.

He goes back into their room to find Jaskier curled into a ball in the center of the mattress under the blankets. Shivers wrack his body in bursts that make Geralt wish it were easier to become a Witcher so he could ensure no sickness would ever touch Jaskier again. All he can do now is sit at the edge of the bed and run his hand over the curve of the bard’s hip and wish for powers he’d never had.

“Jask?” he calls, “Lambert is going to bring you some soup.”

A wretched sounding cough was his only answer.

“Oh, lark.” Geralt leans forward and pulls the blankets tighter around the human, so small now without his personality filling the air. “Can you sit up, at least? Then you’ll be able to eat something.”

“Not hungry.” A mulish voice protests.

“You need to eat. Keep your strength up.”

“No.”

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

One blue eye blinks up at him from beneath the covers before disappearing once more. “I’m sleepy.”

Geralt sighs, unsettled and anxious. He wished he’d paid attention to all the humans around him. All his years on the path had only prepared him for killing, not healing.

He could only hope that that wouldn’t prove true this time.

******

The coughing was getting worse.

Jaskier’s fever had risen until Geralt seemed to be constantly walking back and forth from the bed to the pitcher of room temperature water nearby to refresh the cool rag across his brow. Each time it came away too warm and sweat damp, he felt his stomach twist into tighter knots.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, voice rasping in a way Geralt was only used to after a long night together. “You’re worrying too much.”

“You’re  _ sick _ .”

A weak chuckle. “It’s just a cold, Geralt. I’ll be okay. Humans get sick all the time.”

Geralt glowers at him.

“We can’t afford to waste any time--” Jaskier’s words were cut off as he fell into another round of coughing and his hands shake when he finally lower them from his mouth, “--We have to get to Kaer Morhen.”

“You’re in no shape to travel.”

“If the snows come before we can--”

“Then we will go to Oxenfurt for the winter,” Geralt grits out. 

Jaskier gives him a plaintive look, pouting. “It’s really not that big of a deal, Geralt. Humans get sick all the time. I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow--I’m sure of it.”

******

He isn’t.

******

The bard falls into a restless sleep just after midnight. His body seems terribly fragile beneath the pile of blankets, too still. Geralt remains on watch beside his bed, ignoring the burn of his muscles from the uncomfortable position in favor of keeping his eyes on the erratic rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest.

His fingers curl around Jaskier’s hand, looping around his wrist to feel the steady beat of his heart. It feels terribly fragile against the weight of all that could stop it. Geralt is careful not to think about what he would do if it ever stopped.

As if he could sense the dark direction of the Witcher’s thoughts, Jaskier’s eyes flutter above dark circles left by the illness. His hand twitches in Geralt’s then stills. Thick lashes shift open as he looks up at the ceiling for a beat before drifting down to find Geralt beside him. The smile that crooks his full lips makes Geralt’s slow heart race.

“There you are,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt leans forward to brush a kiss across the delicate skin along the inside of his wrist, smirking a little when he feels the heartbeat race against his lips. “Are you feeling any better?”

The bard’s smile falters a little and he ignores the question to reach out to cup Geralt’s cheek. “You look tired, love.”

“Just worried.”

“Silly Witcher,” Jaskier croons as his eyes slide shut once more, “as if I would ever leave you.”

******

Eskel bullies Geralt into leaving Jaskier long enough to shovel some cold food into his mouth and rinse away the stink of his fear and worry in a quick bath. The scarred Witcher attends the vigil, serious as a sinner at a shrine. It reminds him of the way the older warrior had always been the first to heal instead of hurt.

It takes a pointed reminder of the way Geralt’s hands are beginning to shake to convince the White Wolf to leave. Jaskier needed him to be at his best. He needed him to be strong against the pointed reminder of how easily mortality might rip away the very heart of him.

He knows he can’t sleep, not without Jaskier’s heartbeat to act as his lullaby. He’s spoiled now by the luxury of having the warmth of the bard to ease the night’s chill and the nightmares that wait for him there. It’s enough to make him avoid the bed waiting for him in Eskel’s room to slump down the stairs toward the kitchens.

A friendly teenager with the innkeeper’s dark hair flashes a dimple at him as she slides a bowl of stew across the table to him along with a thick loaf of bread. “Esk--the other Witcher said you’d be hungry,” she says in explanation. “Ma always says her stew can heal any hurt.”

Geralt grunts, but can’t quite manage a smile. 

She doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of response, just sets the food onto the table and bustles into the kitchen to continue washing dishes. There are only a few other customers in the tavern this early in the day. A few shoot him curious looks from over their card games, obviously wandering about the Witchers that had taken up residence in their town.

Methodically, he begins shoveling in the lukewarm stew into his mouth. His time on the Path has taught him the value of eating while he could. It wasn’t every day that he was given even this much courtesy from humans. He could only be grateful that Jaskier had ensured they were relatively well receptive after his performances. The bard had a knack for making everything better for the Witcher even when he wasn’t around.

The barmaid returns with a mug of ale and hovers nearby until he looks up at her. “Is...is Master Jaskier going to be alright?”

Geralt feels his food stick in his throat as he tries to answer. What if Jaskier wasn’t able to recover? He knew humans were often killed by things a Witcher would shake off without any difficulty. No cold or flu would be enough to stand up to the magic thrumming in their veins or the potions they kept in stock. Jaskier had none of these defenses.

He opens his mouth--

“Geralt? Where-- _ Geralt _ !” 

The voice--frantic, scared--is enough to have Geralt scrambling back to the room. He nearly runs over the innkeeper in his haste, but can’t be bothered to stop to apologize when all he can focus on is the pounding heartbeat and the sound of a body thrashing against sheets.

“Shh, Jaskier. Calm down, lark--you’ll hurt yourself,” Eskel urges, leaned over to try to keep Jaskier from falling off the bed.

Jaskier’s dark hair shifts with him as his head whips back and forth on the pillow. The human pants, breathing ragged and painful from the liquid din his lungs. His thrashing is enough that Eskel has abandoned his place beside the bed to lean his body fully against the bard’s smaller frame to try to keep him still. 

“His fever is spiking!” Eskel grits as Geralt flies across the space.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls, trying to help keep him still while avoiding harming him further. “Jaskier, baby, you’ve got to calm down.”

He keeps repeating the words until Jaskier slumps down against the sweat damp sheets. Both of them breathing hard enough that Geralt can barely hear the liquid that’s still in his lungs.

“Ger...alt…” The words are barely audible. “Where…?”

“You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He isn’t sure who he’s trying to comfort with the promise, but he can feel the way Jaskier shifts so Geralt is more firmly against him. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”

He runs his fingers through tangled dark hair, sensing when Eskel backs away to give them space. Jaskier looks up at him with eyes that are still glazed over with the fever.

“Do you think you can drink?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier licks dried lips, but shakes his head. “Cold.”

“I know, but you need to drink something while you’re still awake.” Geralt takes the cup Eskel offers and presses it against Jaskier’s mouth. “Please. Do it for me.”

A huff, fond enough to make Geralt smile, before Jaskier opens his mouth and sips at the water. He manages a few mouthfuls before pulling away.

“You should eat something.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but doesn’t complain when the Witcher presses a bite sized piece of bread to his lips. The hint of humor eases some of Geralt’s worry, but his eyes still linger on the dark circles beneath Jaskier’s eyes and the sweat dampening his brow. He reaches out to brush away the damp strands of hair clinging there. The bard smiles and turns to brush a kiss against the palm of his hand before he retracts it to feed him more bread.

“You’re worrying too much, my dear--” The effect of his words is dampened by the way his voice rasps unnaturally, “--I’m feeling much better.”

“You’re still feverish.”

Eskel comes a little closer and watches Jaskier carefully. “Are you sure you haven’t offended any witches lately?”

Jaskier snorts out a laugh that makes his eyes crinkle with familiar humor. “Are you asking if I’ve been chasing skirts recently?” he asks incredulously before gesturing to Geralt with his chin. “Why bother with anyone when I have  _ this _ waiting for me at camp?”

“Imp,” Eskel says without any heat, reaching out to tousle his dark hair. Some of his humor fades as he continues, “You got sick so quickly…”

The bard shrugs, looking discomfited by the worry in both warriors’ expression. “I thought it would go away before you noticed. I sometimes start to feel a little ill around the change of the seasons.”

“You knew you were sick and didn’t tell me?”

Jaskier flinches at the hurt in Geralt’s voice. “I’m sorry, my love. I, I just knew you’d worry.”

“What if it had killed you?”

“Darling,” There’s a wealth of affection and humor in the word, “I’m human. We get sick on occasion. It’s not as terrible as you think it is.”

Eskel shares a look with Geralt. “We should still get a healer.”

“Save your coin,” Jaskier insists. “I’m fine. I’m feeling better--really.”

“Drink some more water,” Geralt orders, already moving the cup to Jaskier’s lips.

Obediently, he leans forward and sips at the water until he tires and flops back against the pillows with a sigh.

Geralt frowns, but doesn’t press. The bard is still wane and tired enough that the Witcher is grateful for even that much. He sets the cup down and fidgets with the blankets until Jaskier opens his eyes to watch him.

“Sleep with me?” he asks.

Helplessly, the Witcher settles gingerly at the edge of the bed until Jaskier pokes him. Geralt releases a huff of his own and scoots until he can feel the feverish heat of the bard against his skin. Despite that, Jaskier shivers and leans closer like he’s craving the warmth of another body against his. For the first time, Geralt wishes his kind ran a little hotter than their human companions, but their slow heartbeat offers little help in that area.

Eskel gives them a quick smile before heading out of the room--no doubt to track down Lambert. He shuts the door behind them, leaving only the dying light of the sun outside to illuminate the room.

“I don’t like when you’re like this,” Geralt whispers to the bard at his side. “You aren’t allowed to get sick again.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, just snores softly against the fabric of his shirt.

******

The next morning, Geralt wakes feeling sticky with sweat, but surprisingly rested. He hopes that meant their sleep hadn’t been interrupted by the restless shifting of a feverish human. Immediately, he looks over at where Jaskier is still sleeping and smiles.

The bard is sprawled across his chest, face slack in sleep. His nose is stuffy enough to explain the way he breathes heavily through an open mouth. A quick check confirms that his skin is a more normal temperature and Geralt releases a soft sigh of relief. Maybe the worst was over.

The sound is enough to make Jaskier stir and nuzzle clumsily against the fabric of his shirt, smacking his lips and grunting in disgust at the fuzzy taste in his mouth. Geralt watches him move, hungry for the usual antics of his bardling. Blue eyes peek through slitted lashes and scowl at the morning sunlight streaming cheerily through the window before they soften when he sees Geralt watching him.

When Jaskier opens his mouth, no sound comes out.

Geralt leans forward, ears perked as though it was a mistake. Jaskier frowns, licks his lips, and tries again after clearing his throat. This time the sound was little more than a squeak, painful.

The Witcher’s heart goes crashing to the floor. All he can think about is the way Jaskier had looked at him with blood in his teeth and fear in his eyes. He remembered the moment when he’d realized that it was all his fault,  _ it was all his fault _ .

The bed creaks dangerously when Geralt rolls away abruptly and gets to his feet. Jaskier’s hand reaches out like he was trying to settle him, but he can’t seem to accept the comfort that would be offered there. 

“Y--your voice,” he breathes, horror in every syllable. “Fuck, Jaskier-- _ your voice is gone _ .”

Jaskier’s lips shape his name, but Geralt can’t hear it. He can’t hear anything. 

“I’ll find a healer, a mage. Eskel will---I’ll fix this.” 

Geralt doesn’t wait for another failed attempt to speak to him. He scrambles to the door and throws it open hard enough to make the flimsy walls tremble. Already, he can hear the near-silent footsteps moving toward him that tells him that Eskel is heading toward him. He leans against the wall so he can be sure that he could still hear Jaskier’s heartbeat--elevated with anxiety now, but steady--through the walls and tries to breathe.

It’s the worst thing he can imagine above Jaskier’s death. The bard’s life relies on the words that come so easily to him and the music that bursts to life on his fingertips. His soul travels through the vibrations within his throat and ignites in the hearts and minds of all who listen. The thought of what might happen if he  _ lost _ that--

“Geralt?” Eskel’s voice is soft, eyes flicking to the door and back. His shoulders loosen minutely when he confirms what Geralt already knows--Jaskier is alive. “What’s wrong?”

“His voice is gone.”

At the words, Eskel straightens like a hound in scent. He shakes his head then hardens his expression. “We can fix it.”

“ _ How _ ?” He thinks of how he’d waited for his medallion to give even the barest thrum to indicate magic at work or the way Eskel had meticulously checked each piece of food and drink Jaskier might have touched. He scrubs a hand over his face and tries to find some sort of control.

“Lambert is--” They both look up as the entrance to the tavern bursts open and booted feet stomps inside. “Speak of the devil.”

Within seconds, Lambert appears at the bottom of the stairs. The Witcher is more rumpled than usual and his clothes are dusty with road dirt. His eyes dart around almost manically before he fixes on the two of them and goes pale.

“Jaskier?” he asks, looking almost frightened by what could send his brothers away from his sick bed.

“He’s fine,” Eskel soothes, “Just...his voice is gone.”

“ _ Fuck _ .”

Geralt nods, then frowns at his brother. For the first time, he realizes that he can’t remember seeing Lambert since the first night Jaskier became sick. Judging from the clothes, he’d guess the Witcher had been traveling, but where?

Seeing the question in his expression, Lambert gestures to someone behind him. “I found someone who can help.”

“I said I’d fucking look--not that I was a miracle worker.” The voice is irritable enough to put any Witcher to shame even if none of them recognize the squat, ancient looking woman coming around the corner. 

She looks nearly as old as Vesemir, even if her milky eyes are sharp. A loose gown in dark brown covered a body that was bent and crooked with age, knuckles swollen with arthritis. The sharp scent of feverfew, chamomile, and echinacea seems to bleed from her very pores, marking her profession.

Healer.

Geralt stands eagerly. “You have to help him, please. I’ll pay you--”

“You don’t have a choice about that, young man--” Eskel mouths ‘ _ young man _ ’ back at Lambert and the youngest Wolf grins, “--I didn’t get hauled back to the middle of ass fuck no where for fun.” She glares at Lambert until he offers an arm to brace her as she hobbles up the stairs, proper as the nobleman he’s never been. “Tell me the symptoms.”

“Fever and coughing mostly,” Geralt lists. “He’s been struggling to sleep and doesn’t want to eat.”

“Of course he doesn’t--he probably feels like shit.”

Eskel snickers.

Geralt grits his teeth and tries to force his voice to remain calm. “He woke up without his voice.”

The healer gives him a quick look, but is clearly done with the Witchers once she reaches the landing. “He’s in here?”

She doesn’t wait for their response before she’s shouldering open the door and stepping inside. Immediately, the smell of sweat and sickness floods the hallway and Lambert wrinkles his nose. Already they regret the decision to keep the window sealed tightly closed to avoid any drafts.

Jaskier looks up in surprise at the sound of people entering, halfway out of his bed. His legs tremble with the effort of remaining standing after so many days in bed. It looks like he was in the process of changing into a fresh shirt, pale skin and lean muscle on display as he awkwardly bends over to rifle through their bags. He blinks, clever eyes darting between the Witchers and the stranger. His mouth opens soundlessly a moment before he looks frustrated by it.

The healer throws up a hand when Geralt starts to move forward to assist and he slows begrudgingly. She scans the bard in a way that has him blushing and attempting to cover his chest awkwardly, looking very aware of being the only person who is undressed.

“How long have you been coughing?” Geralt starts to answer, but she shoots him a look that has him snapping his mouth closed. She focuses back on Jaskier, “Hold up a finger for each day, child.”

He huffs at the moniker and considers a moment before holding up five fingers.

The number makes Geralt narrow his eyes and Jaskier look a little guilty. That was far longer than they’d thought he was sick. Jaskier must have been hiding showing his symptoms in order to ensure he could still travel to Kaer Morhen--or that he wouldn’t be left behind.

“Have the symptoms been this serious in all that time?”

This time Jaskier holds his hand out and tilts it back and forth in a more or less gesture.

The healer nods then glances at the Witchers. “How long was his fever high?”

“Two days,” Geralt answers, “It broke last night.”

“Anything else? Any vomiting? Diarrhea?”

They shake their heads.

This time her scowl is dramatically more incensed. She throws a hand out in a sharp gesture that stops Jaskier from moving further from the bed. “You. Get back in bed,” she snaps and Jaskier mutely obeys. “Don’t get out of there for at least another day.”

Then she turns her attention to Lambert. “You. Go see if they have any tea.” She tosses him a small packet of herbs with shocking precision. “Use this to brew with it.”

Lambert disappears meekly through the doors and Geralt steps forward eagerly. “You know what’s wrong with him?”

“Currently? A ridiculous number of people fussing over him.”

Geralt growls at her. “Can you fix him?”

“No.”

Immediately, whatever hope that had been keeping him upright drains like air from a balloon. He avoids looking at Jaskier, afraid that the bard will sense the terror that drips like cold sweat down his back. “I thought--”

“The only thing that will fix him is rest and fluids,” the healer continues briskly. She points to Eskel, who snaps upright like a soldier before a general. “You. Pretty one. Go open that window--it smells like shit in here.”

Geralt gapes as Eskel blushes at the compliment before he hurries to pry the window open. He looks back to catch the healer giving the other Witcher an appreciative look and clears his throat meaningfully. “What exactly is wrong with him?”

“Best guess? Wet air mixing with the dust of the road irritated his throat combined with the weakness left behind by a long journey to bring your boy to his knees.”

Jaskier bares his teeth in affront at the implication which she returns just as quickly.

“So what’s wrong with him?” Geralt repeats, irritated at the growing suspicion that the answer is obvious.

The healer sighs dramatically. “He’s got a cold.”

“A...cold.”

“Yes, you giant muscle man, a cold!” She throws her arms up in exasperation and Jaskier’s shoulders shake with silent laughter at the sight of the Witchers gaping at her. “Another day of rest and plenty of tea will bring your voice back. At your age and relative health, I’d say you’ll be back to normal by the end of the week.”

“That’s it?” Geralt’s eyes dart back and forth between the healer and the bard on the bed. “You’re sure?”

“You brought me here to tell you what was wrong and I have. I’m not wasting any more of my time trying to convince you that you’re an overprotective lunk,” she looks less than amused when Jaskier tosses a stale piece of bread at her for the insult. “I expect to be paid either way.”

Lambert pushes his way back into the room with a steaming tray with a mug of tea and kettle carefully balanced on top. He rolls his eyes at the healer, looking exasperated. “I already paid you half up front, you harpy. I’ll give you the rest when I bring you back to your village.”

She sniffs and flicks her fingers towards Eskel. “Help me downstairs, handsome. I intend to get some lunch before I’m forced to ride across the Continent for the second time today.”

“You’d think we traveled weeks to get here instead of a few hours,” Lambert grouses.

“A few hours with you feels like weeks!” comes the crabby reply. The younger Witcher curses and stomps off to deal with the healer.

The silence that falls on the room is exasperated and disbelieving in the wake of the healer’s remarks. Geralt looks over at the bard to find Jaskier smothering a rough, squeaking laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Torn between irritation and relief, the Witcher gives him a glare without any real heat.

“Well, you were no help.”

Jaskier’s guffaws are still mostly silent, but the tea he’d downed has already ensured Geralt can hear exactly how funny the situation is to him.

He sighs and makes his way over to the bed, purposely flopping down so Jaskier squawks and has to hold on to avoid falling to the floor. The bard pokes his side in retaliation before continuing to sip his tea. This time, the silence is far more comfortable.

“I was really worried,” Geralt says after a long moment.

Jaskier’s hand, warm from the tea, drops down to link their fingers tightly. He pulls Geralt’s hand to his lips and brushes a kiss over the scarred knuckles in a quiet apology.

“You aren’t allowed to get sick,” he mutters, still flustered by the experience. “Not again.”

The bard hums an assent and leans more heavily against him. Geralt wraps an arm around him and maneuvers him until they’re curled around each other, legs tangling on top of the quilt. Outside, he listens to the birds calling to one another as they ready their nests for winter and tries to imagine Vesemir’s expression when he realizes how much they’d panicked over a simple cold. Maybe he could get them all to swear not to speak of the incident again.

They breathe in the fresh air tempered with the sharp herbs and honey in Jaskier’s tea, allowing the knowledge of Jaskier’s diagnosis to chase away the stale taste of fear and panic from the last several days. If he focuses, he can hear the difference in the way Jaskier breathes and the absent way he hums quietly--familiar now after all their years together. It makes his heart go tight with something close to bliss tangled in the newly reborn joy that today is not the day he’s forced to acknowledge the differences in their lifespans and can instead cherish the time they’ve been given.

Jaskier sighs, oblivious to Geralt’s thoughts, and smirks up at him. “How much do you want to bet the healer gropes Eskel before the night is out?”

Geralt groans and resolves not to ask.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed my brief departure from writing angst to give you these soft, ridiculous boys. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, you can check out my other works here or come hang with me on tumblr @geraskierficrecs.


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